


Chicken

by th_esaurus



Category: American Animals (2018)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, POV Second Person, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 12:54:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15631095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/th_esaurus/pseuds/th_esaurus
Summary: He noticed you staring and popped out his hip like Betty Boop. “Come on,” he said. “Don’t sit there gawping, get in.”





	Chicken

**Author's Note:**

> hey did anyone see american animals yet

It was a joke. Everything between you and Warren was a joke, but you never wanted to be the one who wimped out. You were so weedy in your day to day life; at least Warren riled you up, energised you, made you wanna _do_ some shit. Maybe that’s why your parents let him hang around, even though they hated him. They never said it. Just thinly veiled comments about how you were becoming an adult now, you had to take responsibility for your actions, couldn’t run around like a headless chicken, just being a jerk-off for the rest of your life. They didn’t say it like that. But they meant it. Warren was a douchebag jerk-off. That’s what they meant.

They appreciated that you had a friend, even if they were chagrined it had to be Warren, you supposed.

Anyway, he was showing you his new ink, which was honestly appalling and you’d offered seventeen times to design him something, and he always said sure, awesome, sure, but he only got tattoos when he was drunk and bored so you just had a page-full of half-finished decals that you thought might look nice on Warren’s skin, if they ever made it there. You never even got round to showing him, or at least, not on purpose; sometimes, you knew, he flicked through your sketchbook when he thought you weren’t looking, and stared a bit at the delicate sketches of his dozing face. But he was showing you, this stupid fucking funfair scene that looked like a kid’s drawing on his pelvis, a wobbly ferris wheel and a rollercoaster that looked like a limp noodle; and he showed it to you in his bathroom, while he was running a bath, and you were sitting on the closed toilet lid with your hands between your thighs, and he showed you while he was stripping off, then just carried on. Kicked off his shorts. Clambered into the bath.

He was lean, but there was muscle on his bones. His dad was fat now but had been some kind of baseball whizz at high school, and always passive-aggressively needled Warren into sports. Soccer wasn’t the ideal but it was one of Warren’s small rebellions. Anything but batter up. His others were booze and weed and kleptomania.

He noticed you staring and popped out his hip like Betty Boop. “Come on,” he said. “Don’t sit there gawping, get in.”

It was a joke. Warren was always making jokes like that. Making you spoon with him when you were in that Montreal hostel, ten to a dorm room; or feeding you half-eaten spring rolls on a family dinner at the local Chinese; or that time he pick-pocketed some MDMA off Jason Wozniak’s little brother and put one on the nub of his tongue and stuck it out at you and made a gross _ahhhhhhhh_ noise until you took it.

With your fingers, though, not your--

You didn’t put your tongue on his tongue or anything. “Lame,” Warren had said, cooly. But he forgot about it by the time the high kicked in.

But you were in a dizzy mood tonight. A little buzzed from the beer his dad had given you both jovially over your steak dinner, and then more beer in Warren’s room, palmed from the kitchen cupboard when he was helping his Mom unpack the groceries two days ago, and you had two bottles still balanced on the bathroom sink, one each, though you’d forgotten whose was which and were drinking from both; so maybe drunk rather than buzzed, but you were more than willing to rise to the challenge tonight. If he stuck his tongue out now, you thought, you’d lick it clean.

Weird.

You pulled off your sweater and jeans. You always overdressed even when it wasn’t cold; a side-effect of being a sickly child born in winter. The tub was small and booger-green, unchanged since the 70s, and there was no room for you, literally, but you were determined, laughing at Warren’s laughter as you wrangled his legs up and clambered under them, rested his ankles on your shoulders so you could fit both your asses in the water, arching your back away from the still-scalding tap. It dripped hot slugs of water down your asscrack and you winced, tried not to fidget. If you slipped forward any more, your dick would probably meet Warren’s and that’d be--

That wasn’t part of the joke.

He ended up humming a dumb fifties housewife kinda tune, full of imaginary pep, and washing whatever parts of himself and you he could reach with a bar of dwindling white soap, while you flicked palmfuls of water from the tub up to rinse you both down. He pushed his left heel against your jaw, not kicking exactly, just nudging you to be annoying. You couldn’t really reach any part of him except his chest so you got his nipple between your finger and thumb and squashed it hard, and he yelped, and you giggled, and he giggled back and then it was war, both of you slapping and hitting whatever skin you could reach, Warren standing in a rush, dragging you up out of the water, half of it on the bathroom tiles, getting you in a headlock, and you wriggled wildly, almost slipped and fell, but he caught you, wrestled you, grabbed at your hair and the meat of your stomach and got a low swipe at your dick while you were doubled over, both of you laughing again, because it was a joke, obviously, his hand kind of kneading your dick and balls until you elbowed him in the hip, right where he was sensitive--

Both of you were wet and winded. Your dick felt sore. Not because he was rough, though he was. You were about half mast, and thought you should probably get a towel.

“C’mon,” Warren said, breathless, waving his hand in a vague sort of way. “You can just--”

“What?”

“You know. Do it in the water before I drain it.”

This--

This was a joke too. You were sure of it.

“We can both do it,” Warren said, rubbing the scruff of his neck casually. For good measure - to really sell it - he put his hand on his dick. Stroked it with the flat of his palm a couple times.

“Har _har_ ,” you said, rolling your eyes. You climbed shakily out of the bath and grabbed two towels and threw one at Warren, and started rubbing your hair with the other, kind of vigorously, so that when you stopped and looked in the mirror, you couldn’t tell if your pinked-up cheeks were from that or from--

Whatever.

You couldn’t remember which beer bottle was yours, but both of them had had Warren’s lips around them at some point in the night. You grabbed the one on the right.

You hadn’t--it’s not like you’d chickened out. Some of Warren’s jokes were just dead ends.

Kind of a lot of them, actually, if you thought about it.


End file.
